


Counting the Days

by WalkerLister



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Reunion Fic, i wrote this in like 20 mins because that promo pic got me good, like does it even make sense idk i just needed to get this out of my system
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkerLister/pseuds/WalkerLister
Summary: 'The machinery clatters from Yaz’s hand, dropping from numb fingers, shock travelling through her body like a wave of icy water. Smokes streams across her vision in clouds, impairing her vision, and she is irrationally angry at it for getting in her way as she tries desperately to make out the figure across from them, a figure all too familiar and yet-'I wrote this impulsively in 20 mins after the pictures posted today from 'Revolution of the Daleks' (and then I added a second chapter)
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 47
Kudos: 99





	1. Chapter 1

The machinery clatters from Yaz’s hand, dropping from numb fingers, shock travelling through her body like a wave of icy water. Smokes streams across her vision in clouds, impairing her vision, and she is irrationally angry at it for getting in her way as she tries desperately to make out the figure across from them, a figure all too familiar and yet-

There is no long coat swooping behind them, their shoulders are hunched over, not drawn back with confidence, and even in a silhouette through plumes of smoke they look- smaller. Withdrawn. Maybe memory has built her up in Yaz’s mind, turned her into some kind of infallible being, as Yaz had sometimes thought she was, but the figure in front of her she-

The smoke clears, caught up in a strong gust of wind, and through the rubble and devastation of the deserted street, lit only by streetlamp and the blaring lights of some cars caught up in the battle, Yaz finally gets a good look at the figure’s face as they stumble closer. Pale, drawn, but familiar, so, _so_ familiar. Yaz traces the lines of their face, hardly daring to believe even as her eyes connect the dots from mouth to nose to eyes.

Yaz’s heart stops and her feet lurch forward, and before she knows it, she is running.

The reverberation of her feet slapping against the ground travels through her entire body, jolting her, but it helps to cut through the numb shock, to turn it into realisation which morphs itself into joy and relief and then-

Concern, as the figure stumbles and falls to their knees, scraping against the ground, protected only by the worn material of the burgundy jumpsuit- _burgundy jumpsuit?!-_ they wear, and Yaz’s heart lurches forwards with her feet, catching up, and she falls to the ground in front of the figure, catching them in her embrace before they can fully hit the ground.

They are solid and warm and the material under Yaz’s hands as she bunches them into the jumpsuit is coarse and unfamiliar, but she could not care less in this moment because she if feeling them, touching them. _They are real._ She is real, she is here, she has made it back to them, she is-

“Doctor.” The name leaves Yaz on a light breath, being carried into the night sky as if in the naming she has finally brought the woman back to her, back to them. Yaz barely registers that they have never touched like this, hugged like this, because she is too caught up in _this_ being the proof the Doctor is here, is alive; any hesitation or awkwardness be damned because Yasmin Khan has been searching for her and waiting for her for so long and the Doctor is _here_ and there is no force now that could tear her away from the woman in her arms.

“Yaz.” The Doctor says, barely more than a whisper, voice croaking, relieved. Her head is tucked into Yaz’s shoulder, her hair, unwashed, brushing against Yaz’s cheek, and Yaz feels her heart skip a beat to wonder where the Doctor has been, to be like this, unclean and wearing a _burgundy jumpsuit_ with connotations Yaz cannot help but make, which send her stomach lurching, to wonder how long it has taken her to get back to them, to get back to Yaz…

“You’re here.” Yaz says, and whether she is saying it more to affirm the fact for herself or soothe the both of them in the statement of it, she is not sure, but she wraps her arms tighter around the Doctor, feels the grief and guilt which have so long taken root in her, polluted her very being, be harried out of her in turn by the oncoming charge of relief and love. The Doctor is here, in her arms, and maybe, just maybe, Yaz can begin to feel whole again.

The Doctor tightens her own grip on Yaz, and Yaz hears words whispered against her shoulder, the street around them now seeming unnaturally quiet and still, despite being littered with the remnants of a battle, despite the boys being stood only a few feet away, waiting for their own reunions, as if the universe is allowing them this moment of stillness just to be together again.

The Doctor speaks. “I’ve been counting the days until I saw you again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... whoops.
> 
> This might not make any sense. it is late. but i just wanted to get this out tonight. bit of hurt/comfort and angst. (if you see any mistakes i haven't really checked so let me know if you do thank you 😊)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who enjoyed the first part of this, i hope you enjoy this extra chapter!

Yaz is impressed she is keeping it together as well as she is. All this time, she has been filled with the desire to run, to get away, to escape the sudden thrust back into mundanity; she has barely been able to sit still for a minute, constantly moving with anxiety. And when she hasn’t been, when depression has forced stillness on limbs still jittering to get away, she has lain for hours, numbly, barely thinking, only…. Remembering. A face caught in starlight, eyes twinkling, blonde hair catching at cheeks. Months on end of this pattern, back and forth between agitation and desperation, sadness and solitude in thoughts and feelings; Graham and Ryan have been there with her in the grief, of course, but theirs does not cut as deep, dulled with the knife of past loss, of not having the same reason for grief as Yaz does. Her knife cuts so sharp it takes her breath away sometimes. Or rather, it had. For now it has been ripped out, and the gaping wound left behind is being soothed and healed with the presence of the one who she had thought-

Well, the Doctor had been missing, and Yaz had not known what to think, too caught up in those hots and colds of feelings, but now… well, now she is here, and Yaz’s wound is healing, but dirt is getting into it as Yaz tries to cope with the woman in front of her, with how she is…. different.

The Doctor would have rambled her ear off by now, if it had been before, before all this pain and this mess of fire and fury, but the woman beside her is quiet as they make their slow way to Graham’s, all their shoulders slumped in exhaustion as they trail slowly uphill. Yaz feels as if she is buzzing with electricity, adrenaline shooting through her like eels wriggling under her skin, and she longs to reach out to touch the Doctor, who trails next to her, but something holds her back.

Because Yaz is certain this is _her,_ that she is not imagining things, because never would she have envisioned her impossible woman like _this,_ wearing a burgundy jumpsuit with greasy hair and a ghostly pale pallor, all rainbows gone, hair dulled, face drawn, eyes…. Haunted.

That jumpsuit gives Yaz more connotations than she would like to admit, and she swallows down bile and fear and worry at where the Doctor has been, and why… she just wants to focus on the woman’s existence right next to her, for now, wants to focus on reassuring them both that she is here. Wants to get her back to Graham’s and lock the door behind them so that no one can disturb them, so that nothing might tear the Doctor away from her once more. She is not going anywhere, not now Yaz has her back; fiery determination raises its head above the swirl of emotions and Yaz becomes certain that is what she wants more than anything.

 _I want to get her out of those clothes,_ Yaz thinks, innocently, and then feels her cheeks burn pink with the implication. The thought is almost too much to bear, and she feels tears catch at her eyes, getting strangely emotional; it reminds of a time long ago, when they had first met and the mysteries of the Doctor were exciting and enigmatic, but it also reminds her of her longing, her desperate desire to see the other woman again… she pushes it away. Coping, she is coping with this, she _will_ cope with this… she just wants to get them to safety behind locked doors.

They reach Graham’s and Yaz checks three times to make sure that the door is locked, and if she notices Ryan’s concerned gaze on her, she ignores it, focussing instead on the Doctor, who is walking around Graham’s front room, a slow pacing, movements drawn in, tentative, taking everything in. The man himself edges past her, muttering something about tea, and Yaz catches Ryan’s eye as he slides out of his coat, stinking of smoke and spattered which mud, all remnants of a fight they were trying to prevent, and sees the weariness in his eyes, mixed with the relief, mixed with the…. Trepidation.

There are questions, so many, their tongues tingling for them, but Yaz does not care about any of that now, cannot….

She moves past Ryan to join the Doctor in the front room, longing to reach out and put a hand on her back… but she curls her hand into a fist instead. Everything is tentative, their sudden, raw, impulsive hug being followed by an uncertainty Yaz can almost feel between them like a tangible force. She would reach out without hesitation if the Doctor gave her a sign…. Which is when Yaz realises that she might have to be the one to reach out first, to seek comfort for herself and in turn give it to the Doctor, if she wants it…. The woman is obviously without her usual bombastic nature, at present, all usual lack of social etiquette curled up inside this… stillness.

Yaz swallows back any indecision, self-conscious uncertainty, remembering the Doctor’s words, whispered in her ear.

_I have counted the days until I saw you again._

She is here now, and Yaz will grab the moment as desperately as she had grabbed that strange jumpsuit in her fists.

“Do you want to get cleaned up?” She asks the other woman. The Doctor has gone still, facing away from her, seemingly staring at nothing, head bowed. Yaz pauses, leaning forwards a bit to see her face. She can Ryan behind her, and she turns to catch his eye, and he simply shakes his head and gestures to the kitchen, and Yaz nods as he moves past her, leaving her to it. Yaz takes a few steps forward, and gently lays a hand on the Doctor’s arm.

The other woman jumps, and she turns, looking at Yaz with distracted eyes. Yaz does not think she heard what she just said. She seems curled in on herself, on her thoughts.

“I said did you want to get cleaned up?” Yaz repeats, hand still resting on the coarse material of the Doctor’s jumpsuit. Small touches, easing them both in. “You don’t look particularly comfortable.” She says politely, taking in the Doctor’s grease-slicked hair.

The Doctor’s mouth opens, as if to answer, but she closes it again after a moment and instead nods, once.

The tread up the stairs, footsteps heavy, leaving shoes discarded at the bottom; the Doctor’s boots, Yaz notices, are the same. It is strangely comforting. Yaz drapes her leather jacket over the end of the bannister.

Graham’s bathroom is not so small as to be cramped with two people inside, but it is no overtly generous with space, so that when they are inside, there is only about two feet between them, and Yaz fumbles for the light switch for a moment before she manages to pull on the chord, bathing them both in warm light.

There is stillness between them.

Now that they are here, Yaz suddenly finds herself grasping for straws as to what to do, overwhelmed by a wave of emotion as her mind struggles to catch up with her body, with reality. Alone with the Doctor for the first time in months, months filled with the uncertainty, whether to fully spin into grief, desperately trying to pull herself out of the whirlpool, but too preoccupied with trying not to run to stop herself from trying to drown. 

Maybe it would be odd that they are in Graham and Ryan’s bathroom, but Yaz has been spending so much time here it is a home away from home anyway, a pseudo Tardis, and Yaz does not think the Doctor is particularly fussy, looking even more washed out in the overhead light. Yaz decides to take charge again, knowing if the Doctor is not happy with anything, she will protest, but the time has finally come for them to take care of each other.

“Do you want me to run the bath? It’s probably the best way.” She says, her words echoing slightly in the room. She waits for some sort of response from the Doctor, who is staring at the floor, the white marble-effect tiles, but none is forthcoming. Again. Yaz’s brow dips in concern, watching as the Doctor’s eyes move across the floor without seeing anything, her fingers fidgeting at her sides. Her nails, Yaz realises with a turn of her stomach, are cracked and dirtied with muck and… _blood._ Bath now. Think later. Take comfort in taking care of her, ground both of you.

“Doctor?” She calls again, putting her hand on the Doctor’s arm again, but this time going further, and with her other hand taking one of the Doctor’s own, stilling the frenetic fingers. The Doctor jumps again, eyes blinking furiously as she comes back to the present.

 _Where are you going when you do that?_ Yaz wants to ask. She does not, though. Not now.

“Bath?” She asks, and the Doctor eye’s narrow for a moment before realisation dawns.

“Oh.” She says, more a croak than a word. “Yes.”

Yaz nods and gives her hand a squeeze before she guides her to sit on the toilet seat, telling her to stay put whilst she attends to the bath. Yaz herself could do with a change of clothes, but she is nowhere near as worn as the Doctor.

Hot water runs fiercely from the tap, and as it slaps against the bottom of the porcelain tub, it fills the room with the sound of its movement. Yaz surveys the bottles lined up along the edge of the tub, picking up a half-full bottle of bubble-bath that looks like it must have belonged to Grace, and pouring a generous amount in.

When she turns back to the Doctor, her heart falls to see her staring at nothing in particular again. Her hands are resting palms-up on her thighs, and her fingers are moving erratically again, as if scratching at thin air. Yaz tries to act on her concern, rather than letting it wrap around her like a viper and squeeze all breath from her body to see the Doctor like this.

She kneels on the floor in front of the other woman, placing both of her hands over the Doctor’s. Her fingers tap against her palms for a moment before they still. Yaz looks up into the Doctor’s face, and finally, _finally,_ their eyes meet. Yaz sees stormy skies in those eyes, sees an internal war taking place, but she also sees a familiar glimmer buried deep, shining through like starlight, gracing Yaz with its light. The starlight appraises Yaz and showers her in its shimmer.

The Doctor seems to see her clearly for the first time since their embrace, and her mouth opens, lip wobbling, tongue darting out to lick at cracked skin. “Yaz.” She says, the word an exclamation and salvation, a small balm of relief to the both of them. It is a promise, a reassurance: I am here, and I see you.

“I’m here.” Yaz says, shuffling closer on her knees.

“I’m here.” The Doctor repeats the words, and affirmation to herself, and when Yaz nods she lets her eyes flutter closed for a brief second, head tipping back in relief. It drops forward again a moment later, and a long breath rattles out of the Doctor’s body. “Oh, Yaz…”

So little said and so much said at the same time.

“I feel disgusting.” The Doctor says, and it is the first time that evening she has sounded anywhere vaguely like herself, and Yaz cannot help the small giggle that leaves her, an exhale of relief, feeding on a joy she has been tentative to feel owing to the Doctor’s condition.

“Come on.” She says, squeezing the Doctor’s hands. “The bath’s running.”

The Doctor rises, and with characteristic ignorance of social cues she immediately begins to unzip the front of her jumpsuit. Yaz startles and turns to face the bathroom door. She gestures towards it. “I can-”

“S’fine.” The Doctor mutters, and Yaz can hear the rumpled sound of fabric hitting the ground, of water sploshing and the Doctor settles in the bathtub. She takes a breath to realise that it is not ignorance which fuels the Doctor’s actions, rather it is trust.

Yaz turns, greeted to the sight of the Doctor submerged in the bubbles, bright and dewy against pallid skin. Her collarbones have always been prominent, but this is something else. Yaz bites her lip, but the Doctor’s eyes meet hers again, more relaxed as she soaks in the soothing water, and Yaz settles on the ground at the side of the tub, resting her forearms on the edge. She reaches across with one to turn the taps off when the bubbles reach the Doctor’s chin and the bath is in danger of overrunning. No more running, no more hiding, they are in each other’s company once again, with only glassy bubbles to keep them company.

The Doctor’s eyes are closed, and Yaz allows her own to flutter shut as well, a heavy exhaustion settling over her, her chin resting on the side of the tub. She tiptoes the line between sleeping and waking, and the sound of the Doctor’s breathing becomes a calming wash of noise, likes waves against the shore. She can almost forget the pain and the ache of the past few months and begin to imagine they are onboard the Tardis, amongst the stars, until….

The waves become harsher, hitting the shore with greater strength, greater ferocity, and Yaz opens her eyes when she hears a faint tapping against the side of the tub which accompanies the wash of the waves. Full wakefulness comes to her as she realises the Doctor is breathing more erratically, eyes darting to and fro, as if trying to think, desperately, and that her fingers are moving again, against the sides of the tub this time.

“Doctor.” She says, clearer and more forcibly. “Hey.”

She reaches into the water, plucking fingers away from porcelain, wrapping them in her own, forcing them still. The Doctor flinches, eyes squeezing shut, and Yaz’s heart pounds to watch her, skipping a beat when they flutter open and pained with months’ worth of mystery and pain, they look to Yaz.

“Yaz.” She repeats the word, a desperate cry for help this time.

Yaz moves forward, cupping the Doctor’s face with the hand not clutching her fingers in her own. She trails fingers into greasy locks, and she pulls the Doctor forward until their foreheads meet, Yaz’s eyes closing as she murmurs ever so softly, “It’s okay, I’m here…”

Ever so slowly the Doctor begins to relax against her, and Yaz begins to feel a warmth seep into her, into her body and her mind. It is like a familiar touch, the hand of a loved one clasping yours close, as hers is the Doctor’s, a warm embrace of your thoughts and memories, a connection unlike any Yaz has known. It is as if a hole of absence has been filled, a gaping wound mended, the stab wound of the knife healing as the Doctor’s forehead rests against hers.

Yaz does not know how they long they remain like that, but her knees ache something wicked when the Doctor sucks in a deep breath and pulls away, Yaz’s hand leaving her cheek. Yaz’s eyes open and take in the more relaxed slope to the woman’s shoulders, the way she seems to shake herself, sniffing. She looks up at Yaz, blinking, and Yaz sees that starlight shining more prominently through the dark.

“Ooh.” She says, sniffing once more. “Bit of a wobbly.”

Yaz raises an eyebrow. “I think you’re allowed one of those.”

“You think?” The Doctor asks her, and its sounds shockingly vulnerable, as if the Doctor is looking for her permission to not be okay.

Yaz blinks. “Of course.”

The Doctor nods slightly, Yaz’s affirmation sinking in. Yaz sees her shoulders relax more. “I have missed you, Yaz. So much. My _fam_.”

Yaz’s words get lodged in her throat, threatening tears if she speaks them, so instead she squeezes the Doctor’s hand, and sticks to her plan on comfort and care. _Think later, don’t think too much now because if you think too much now you simply will not be able to move from this spot and you need to move, you need to keep going for just a bit longer._

“Right, let’s get your hair washed.” She says, already reaching for the shampoo. “I’m not gonna lie to you, it’s a right mess.”

The Doctor smirks at that, and slumps over, arms on her knees as she allows Yaz to take over.

Yaz takes the time to indulge the both of them in the slow massaging of the Doctor’s scalp, washing away months of grime from a place Yaz dreads to think of. She goes through the process three times, until the Doctor’s hair feels squeaky clean running between her fingers. The woman herself has her eyes closed, looking the most at peace she has since she returned. This intimate action is something Yaz had begun to think she might never get the privilege to perform, to demonstrate her care, her….

Perhaps she had been a fool to think that action was going to prevent thought, for with the comforting of the Doctor she realises how much this is the accumulation, the reaching of the precipice of everything she has felt for the past months. Her thoughts chase each other around inside her brain like rabid dogs, feasting on her exhaustion, as she tries to make sense of the swelling storm in her. She wants to cry. She wants to laugh. She wants to smile. She wants to kiss the Doctor, to hold her in her arms. She wants to simply be with the impossible woman who has captured her heart and mind and never be bothered again. She has been fighting for so long against so much and she is _tired._

Yaz takes a steadying breath which rattles against her ribs, and pushes herself up, wiping her hands dry on her jeans. She needs a moment, reluctant as she is to leave the Doctor she does not want the other woman to see this, just a moment to compose herself before she can come back to simply acting and settle back into thinking later. _Not now, not now, not now…_

“There’s towels on the radiator just there. I’ll go and see if Ryan has any clothes you can borrow.” She says, not looking at the Doctor, still huddled in the bath, as she leaves the room.

Her breaths come ragged as she thunders down the stairs and peers around the balcony, coming face to face with a weary looking Ryan.

“Have you got any clothes the Doctor can borrow?” She asks him all in one breath, words hurried. Ryan’s brow creases in concern, and he nods distractedly.

“Err, yeah, sure, in my chest of drawers- Yaz?”

Yaz is already flying back up the staircase, away from him, away from anybody, and towards his room; she has spent so much time here he will not mind her rifling around.

She soon sources some sweatpants and a soft sweatshirt, and she pauses for a moment in the quiet of Ryan’s bedroom, allowing herself to breath, pushing away the oncoming storm of tears. Her breaths shake out of her like boulders crumbling against the tide which slaps against the earth, and she holds so tight to those rocks, not wanting to be swept away. Not now, not when she wants to give the Doctor comfort; the woman is obviously traumatised, for goodness sake, caught somewhere between here and whatever hell she has been in for the past months. Yaz cannot loose control now. She cannot. She-

Thinking of loosing control and it is drawing Yaz closer to the precipice, to falling into the water. She raises her head, dropping her shoulders, forcing herself into calmness, just for a little while longer. No more thinking. It never does any good.

She makes her quick way back to the bathroom, barely remembering to give a light knock upon the wooden door. She is greeted to the sight of the Doctor, washed hair sitting slick against her neck, strands falling in front of her face, wrapped in a plush white towel, drowning her in its fabric. She looks up as Yaz enters, a tired smile on her face, replacing the melancholy pensiveness that had resided before. She is trying her best for Yaz, and Yaz… Yaz is….

_Oh damn it!_

“Yaz?” The Doctor asks concerned as Yaz’s face crumples, and she takes a step forward, but Yaz turns, placing Ryan’s clothing down on the hamper in the corner of the room, making to leave again.

“There’s some clothes, I’m just going to-” She begins, but the Doctor’s hand on her arm stills her movement.

“Yaz, wait.” The Doctor says, voice still croaking somewhat. She encourages Yaz to turn to her by tugging at her wrist, and finally, Yaz, and finally, Yaz feels the waves consume her, washing over her and dragging her out from the shore with them. A sob leaves her, and the Doctor’s face crumples with sympathy, and suddenly Yaz is being pulled into an embrace of soft cotton and damp skin and wet hair. She feels a kiss pressed to her temple, a soft comfort returned from another heavy soul.

Yaz has been holding on for so long, has been fighting against the tide, but as she stands, comforted in the Doctor’s arms, having comforted her in her turn, each of them exploring the need for their connection, the need for them to be together after all this time, she realises that there is no shame in letting go, for she might have been dragged away with the tide, but the Doctor is here, now, to pull her back into the shore.

Arms encase her, and three hearts beat in synchronicity, and Yaz is no longer afraid of the sea and the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw the washing hair thing going around Twitter a lot so apologies if i have stolen anyone else's idea, that bit of this isn't even that good anyway lol
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'm gonna reply to comments already left in the morning because i'm so tired lol but thank you so much for all the love so far it's amazing thank you!!
> 
> Tumblr: walker-lister  
> Twitter: @walkerlister1

**Author's Note:**

> Probs obvious I took a lot of inspiration from 'Stolen Earth'/'Journeys End' in the setting of this- that just sticks in my brain I guess. Also there's not much context here- i just like the idea of them fighting off the daleks and then being reunited with the Doctor- but who knows what's going to happen in the special- I just know I am excited!
> 
> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought! I haven't really checked this for mistakes and it's really late so if there are any, apologise! 
> 
> Tumblr: walker-lister  
> Twitter: @walkerlister1


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